


Chemistry 101

by QueenOfSpades



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:39:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfSpades/pseuds/QueenOfSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Love is fickle and volatile and dangerous. It can be disastrous or it can create new things. That’s the beauty of it, Sherlock." Sherlolly where Molly explains the concept of love to Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chemistry 101

Sherlock Holmes bent over the human skull cradled in his left hand and as he carefully picked at the nicks and dents in the bone, a breath of London’s chill tickled the back of his neck, giving rise to goosebumps. He lifted his head and drew his brows together; was it his imagination or was it cold? Of course it was cold. The day was grey and clouds had formed a pristine white wall stretching from one end of the sky to the other. The damp pavement outside had suggested an evening rainshower, and the icy breeze leaking in from the half-closed window confirmed the cold weather. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the cold he felt right now seemed to seep into his bones, into his core and settled there. He shook his head, dismissing the idea and resumed what he was doing.

Molly Hooper nearly dropped the tray of brain matter she was carrying, her hands shaking with frightened surprise. On a day when most couples were out celebrating, the last person she’d ever expected to see, especially at St. Bart’s—was Sherlock Holmes. He was picking at what looked like a human skull, among other bones carefully laid out on a small metal tray. If he’d noticed her come in, he gave no acknowledgement. However, when her own tray met with the table nearest her, it made a sound a little too loud in the quiet lab. His head snapped up, his blue eyes flying instantaneously to her. His left eyebrow rose slightly, and he blinked a few times. 

“Molly? Shouldn’t you be out with…Tom?” She let the question hang unanswered for a moment as she pulled up a chair and sat down, leanin her elbows on the table.

“We weren’t really, er, we. Not really, Sherlock, no,” she answered, albeit a little haltingly. “What about yourself? This is hardly a day to spend in a deathly place like this, eh?”

“My work revolves around the happenstance of death, murder to be precise, Molly, do you forget that?” He commented, chafing a bit of dirt off of the cranium of the skull in his hands.

“So does mine, as you’re well aware,” she sighed wearily. “I’m trying to be nice. Must you make it so difficult to…”

“To what?” He set down the skull and rested his gaze on her again, folding his hands under his chin.

“To…,” She paused, shutting her eyes briefly as a scathing remark threatened to slip off her tongue. The muscles of her eyebrows twitched and pulled together ever so slightly; it was an expression of frustration she’d found herself wearing every now and then. “I’m trying to be a friend. Must you make that so hard?” He looked away within the next few seconds, but not before she saw the slight flicker of muscle movement as he tightened his jaw.

“Perhaps it can be attributed to my lack of a heart,” he said softly. “I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.” Molly dropped her hands and tilted her head to the side, furrowing her brows at him.

“Christ, it’s Valentine’s. Human biology. Everyone has one, Sherlock.”  
“A muscle with the sole purpose of keeping me alive, yes. But explain this to me. EVeryone holds to the idea that feeling—emotion, anger, grief, happiness, love—stems from the heart,” he began, enumerating each emotion on his fingertips as he spoke. “Heartbreak—an even described as something akin to the breaking of a heart, defined also as a feeling of deep sadness. The muscle itself can’t break, Molly. Break suggest injury, which in the case of the cardiac muscle would lead to death. Feelings aren’t felt by the heart; the emotive centers that produce those reactions are found in the brain. You of all people know that. As for the holiday…it was created by greeting card companies and bears no true relation to the ideals of love and human affection.”

During his speech, her head had fallen onto her folded arms and she had closed her eyes, letting the half-hearted fight slowly seep out of her. Enough time had passed without a response from her to warrant a curious glance from him. He looked up from what he was doing and regarded Molly, noting the weariness in the set of her shoulders and the way her head lay on her arms. She looked, small, defeated. “The equation makes no sense to me,” he added after some thought. “The science of it. There’s a science behind everything.”

“Not everything.” He raised both eyebrows now, the corner of his lips twitching upward in a cynical ghost of a smirk. “Tell me, why was John so angry at you after your recent return?”

“To this day, I haven’t solved tha-“

“Ah, ah. No, brilliant mind like yours? I know you’ve figured it out.”

“I gave him no warning upon my return, surprised him. Took him off guard. Two years, and all of a sudden, there I am,” he offered, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“He loved you,” Molly remarked, shaking her head. “Two years ago, when you jumped and he thought you died, he was devastated. He loved you dearly, Sherlock, and in those two years, well, it wasn’t enough time for him to fully recover. To recover from the loss of you; because he cared. Like I care, like Mycroft cares regardless of whether he’ll admit it or not. He mourned you, because your death broke his heart. It tore him apart, you know? He was angry because you were dead and in his mind, the dead stay dead. It made no sense to him. He was angry because you left him without warning and returned without warning. It turned his world upside down. That’s why he was angry.”

“Caring is a disadvantage; it’s a weakness, it’s debilitating and a vulnerability. Moriarty didn’t care-“

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes. You are not him. If you think about it, love is weakness. Love is also strength. Love is why you jumped, isn’t it? You jumped because if you hadn’t, Moriarty would have murdered everyone you hold most dear. Regardless of whether you knew you’d survive—to stare death in the face and still carry on, nothing else could have sustained you. Not your deductions, not your mind palace. Your heart. You can’t break love down under a microscope. People have tried, and you can’t. It’s a feeling based purely off of impulses, thoughts and the stuff of souls.” 

She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. “Think of it this way. Certain molecules have a natural attraction; when said molecules come together, it creates a change in the state of the matter to which they belong. Love is almost like that.” 

She averted her gaze and lowered her voice to a point where he could just barely hear her. “Two people have an attraction, an unspoken attraction that draws them together, and when they come together, it sets off a change in the state of their matter—of their lives. It changes both of them.”

“But what should happen if two atoms split? When atoms split period, that’s an atomic bomb. The equivalent of that in terms of a relationship would be tantamount to disaster,” he replied.

“Love is fickle and volatile and dangerous. It can be disastrous or it can create new things. That’s the beauty of it, Sherlock. That’s how the rest of the world sees it.” She gave him a smile—a Molly smile, the kind that lent a warm light to her chocolate brown eyes up and a dimple to her rosy cheeks. The warmth permeated the layers of ice around the detective’s heart, and for the first in a long while, he didn’t feel so alone on a cold London day.


End file.
